Bonded By Blood
by neganised
Summary: With John Teller travelling to Belfast more often than not, Clay Morrow takes on the responsibility of running the club while he's gone. But with Thomas Teller's health deteriorating, he steps up to be a shoulder for Gemma Teller to lean on. With tension coursing between them, what happens when the V.P and the President's Old Lady begin to take a liking for each other? Rated M.
_A/N: Hello, readers. I'd like to start off by saying thank you for choosing to read this story, and I hope you like this taster of what's to come in future chapters. This is a Sons of Anarchy fiction based on the events that happened before as well as after the death of Thomas Teller. It follows the very beginnings of Clay and Gemma's relationship, and will feature other characters including John Teller. I do not own any character written in this story, nor do I own Sons of Anarchy. This is just an idea that I spun, and I can't wait to see how you react to it as I play it out._

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 **Bonded By Blood**

 _November 21st, 1989_

 _Charming, California_

Life in a motorcycle club had its dangers, it was a hard fact that members dealt with every day when making the choice to climb on the back of a Harley and ride through town. But Sons of Anarchy prided themselves on managing to keep a fine balance, one where they could protect their families as well as taking care of whatever business pertained to the club. It had been this way since they planted their roots in Charming twenty years ago, and so long as they wore the Reaper on the back of their leather cuts – that wasn't going to change. But no matter how hard they tried, no amount of protection could prevent a tragedy brought on by genetics.

Sitting on one of the wooden benches outside of the clubhouse, Clay Morrow watched on as Tig Trager threw punches into the newest Prospect. The cheap boxing ring they danced around in looked as if it had been built with matchsticks and glue, so much so that he could almost bet on the thing falling apart with one wrong move.

"Go easy on him, he ain't used to fightin' with the big boys." Clay called out, smirking as Tig cornered the kid and teased him with slaps to the face. Shit like this was the reason they weren't bringing in numbers the way they used to. By now they should have had two new patched members, and this year they didn't even have one.

"The way this little bastard hits, I'm surprised he ain't got a pussy. Hold on, let me check." Tig grinned, leaning in to grab at the Prospect's crotch before the kid slid through the ropes and stumbled to his feet. "C'mere, where ya goin'?"

"I ain't into that gay shit, man." The Prospect shook his head, a sheen of sweat coating his face as he ran over to grab his cut from where Clay sat before heading for the garage. Watching him leave, Clay raised his brow at Tig and rolled broad shoulders into a shrug. "Why do ya do that weird shit?"

The question brought a hearty chuckle out of the curly headed marine as he grabbed a dirty cloth from the boxing ring floor and wiped his face. "Because, it's _funny_. Plus, I ain't kiddin' man – I think he's one of 'em lady boys or whatever. Can't grow a beard, looks like a lesbian… it ain't a coincidence."

"Jesus Christ." Sighing, the Vice President stood up from the bench and tried to suppress his smile as he adjusted his cut. "No wonder we ain't patchin' in no guys, with you grabbin' at that little bastard's dick every two minutes I'm surprised he ain't shot ya yet."

Hearing the familiar roaring of John Teller's bike at the compound's gate, Clay pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and kept his eyes trained on the troubled President. These past few months had been tough on everybody, but with a sick kid who wasn't showing signs of getting any better, Clay could only imagine the weight that shit carried. Especially with him flying back and forth from Belfast like a goddamn yo-yo, now that he _didn't_ understand.

Business with the Irish was important, there was no denying that fact. But as far as Clay knew, SAMBEL was taking care of the gun trade from that side of the pond. IRA connections had never been better, so why John would _willingly_ volunteer himself to fly over there as a SAMCRO spokesperson when Clay could easily fill that position made no sense.

But asking questions like that wasn't the V.P's place, at least not yet. He was making more money now than he ever had, more than enough to live comfortably, and just the right amount to keep his mouth shut. As long as things continued this way, where he could sit at the head of the Reaper table and make logical decisions while JT was off making friends with the Irish, then he was fine with sitting back and keeping an eye on things.

Strolling out from between the benches, Clay hooked his thumbs in the lapels of his blue jeans and headed towards the bike railings as JT placed his helmet on the end of his handlebar. "Everything go okay with Salvatore, got word he was being difficult."

Palming the back of his neck, Clay nodded. "Don't worry about that greedy spic, he's stupid but he ain't stupid enough t'go pissin' on our doorstep. Me and Tig handled it, he won't be travellin' through Charming with his pack of dogs again. Believe me on that shit."

The Mayans had been getting bolder with each passing month, their club expanding through the mid-west in various charters making Emilio Salvatore, President of the Oakland charter think his dick was bigger than it was. Clay had planned to humble him last month by sending a clear message that would make it through his thick Mexican skull.

 **Don't** _ **fuck**_ **with Sons of Anarchy**.

But JT put a stop to that, and two weeks later a Son was shot to death at the hands of a trigger-happy Mayan prick. Clay wanted Salvatore's head on a stick so he could parade it around Oakland like a SAMCRO branded piñata, but in order to keep the peace and prevent an all-out war, he agreed to follow JT's lead and accepted a one-sided exchange. Taking out the bastard who killed the Son, and leaving it at that.

But nothing was as simple as it seemed, and yet again Salvatore was pressing his luck by riding through Charming with his band of bitches. One more step out of line and not even Clay would stop himself from shooting a round through his forehead.

"Okay, good. Listen, I'm heading out to Belfast this weekend, the IRA want a Son from Charming to go over there and have a look at the terms and conditions of this deal." JT shrugged, still seated on his bike as he narrowed his eyes through the glaring sun. "You think you can take care of shit here while I'm gone? It'll only be for a couple of weeks, a month at most."

Clay knew this conversation was coming, and he wasn't about to turn down the chance to lead the club again. Especially when the second in line for an opportunity such as this would go to Piney Winston. That man wasn't fit to look after a goldish after nearly choking on his sick on one of his bender's up at the cabin, never mind make decisions for the good of Redwood Original.

"You can count on me, brotha." He smiled, folding his arms across his broad chest as Tommy came to mind. "How's the little man doin'?"

"Still fighting." JT sighed, climbing off his bike. "His heart ain't functionin' right, docs said they're thinking about putting him on the transplant list."

That wasn't good, and Clay didn't know what the right thing to say was. The last time he had seen the kid, he was pale as a ghost and so little that you'd have thought he was a toddler. But with Saint Thomas Hospital's professionals looking into him, there was no doubt he was in the best hands.

"I'm gonna need you to keep an eye on them for me while I'm overseas." JT said, nodding at Clay. "Gemma's too stuck up on her _high horse_ to admit it when she needs help, but I got a stash of money in my locker just in case."

This was a _new_ request, and Clay would've thought he was joking if it weren't for the seriousness to his tone. "You know that your old lady don't like me one bit, right?" He snorted, not adding in the part where he didn't like her either. Gemma Teller was the devil disguised in lace and fuck-me boots, no man wanted to be caught in her firing line when she was having a bad day. Because goddamn could she cause a scene.

"Last time I showed up at your door uninvited with a bag of candy for Tommy, you would've thought I was tryin' to kill the kid with the way she went off."

JT couldn't help but smile, a chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned in and clapped a hand against Clay's shoulder. "Yeah, but you're the only one who doesn't take her shit without giving it back. Just a couple of times a week, that's all I'm asking for. _Please_."

Grinding his teeth together, Clay shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked around the compound before giving in. He wouldn't say no, but that didn't mean he was happy about saying yes. "Fine, I'll be the _goddamn_ guard dog. But when you get back from exploring Ireland and its buffet of _tight_ pussy – you better kiss my feet."

JT laughed at the remark, and it was in that exact moment that Clay realised why Belfast was such an attraction to the President. _He had a piece on the side._

"Thanks, Clay. You've been a huge help to me, I won't ever forget it."

"You better not." He chuckled, stepping aside as JT headed for the clubhouse.

Just when he thought he was about to take over as King of Charming again for a month, now he had the _Queen_ to deal with. But _nothing_ would get in Clay's way of making a success out of this small patch of power, not even Gemma and her stream of bullshit.


End file.
